UsUk  All the Same
by iamoki
Summary: Set about a year after the Revolutionary War scene. England still can't get the memories out of his head. No matter how much he drinks, they still haunt him.
1. Part One

_He stood, his gun pointed at the boy-almost-man he regarded as his younger brother. "I can't do it. You bloody fool… Dammit…why dammit…" he muttered, dropping to his knees on the muddy ground._

"_England…" America began, "You used to be so big…"_

It had been a year or so since that stormy day, and England still hadn't gotten over it. He couldn't seem to get the memory out of his mind, no matter how much he drank. Bottle after bottle, the memories still haunted him, and he wasn't sure how much more he could take before he snapped.

He cursed himself over and over for letting the boy-almost-man go. He was constantly worried that something might happen to him, careless as America was, and that it would just make everything hurt worse.

England sat at the bar over, drinking something. He wasn't really sure what. He was too drunk to remember. Finishing his glass of whatever-it-was, he stood up and walked out the door of the bar. Staggered, actually, into pouring rain. He turned into an alley, of sorts between two buildings. It was surprising that he had any motor control at all at this point. He was more drunk than he'd ever been before.

"_England…" America began, "You used to be so big…"_

"DAMMIT!" England yelled. Still, the memories haunted him. He fell to his knees by the side of one of the buildings, with his face up to the rain. Tears mixed with raindrops, and it took him a moment to realize that he was actually crying. His head hurt. Every motion made the pain double, so he slumped against the wall of the building, not wanting to move ever again.

He passed out there, sitting against the side of a building in pouring rain, tearstains undetectable on his cheeks because of all the raindrops that were mixed in.

America moseyed down the sidewalk after dark. There was nowhere he had to be, but he didn't really feel like going home. Lately, restlessness and depression had caused him to wander the streets after dark because he didn't want to go home. It was too lonely there.

That evening it was raining harder than it had in a long time. America meandered past a bar and the alley beside it. He glanced down the alley as he passed by.

Doing a double take, he saw a small, familiar figure sitting on the ground, leaning against the side of a building. The smallish man looked awful. There were circles around his eyes, and he had lost a lot of weight since America had last seen him. America stopped walking and stood there, trying to decide if he should do anything. He desperately wanted to, but he was unsure how England would feel about that. He was probably still mad at him for leaving.

Unable to stand there doing nothing for any longer, America stepped into the muddy alley. Upon further inspection, he discovered England to be unconscious. America stooped and picked up England's limp body. Holding him in his arms like a baby, he carried him all the way home.

America laid out the still unconscious England on his own (still unmade) bed. He pulled off his shoes and his jacket and hung them over a towel rack in the bathroom. He dragged a chair from the kitchen into the bedroom close to the bed and sat down on it, checking the clock. It was already after midnight.

He watched England lay there for a few minutes, trying to figure out his feelings. He reached out tentatively toward England's hand lying on top of the covers. Hesitantly, he wrapped his own around it. His fingers were freezing. With the other hand, he pulled a blanket over him.

He was restlessly drifting in and out of sleep an hour or so later when England finally stirred. America felt him move his hand (which he still held) and opened his eyes. England was starting at him blearily.

"Wha…? Where am I…?" he inquired groggily. His voice was still slurred. Even in this hung-over state, England could tell America was no longer the boy-almost-man he remembered. He was most certainly a man now. In only a little time, he had transformed from a loud, immature kid to a…well… He was probably just as immature as ever.

"This is my house, silly," replied America, interrupting England's thoughts.

"But…you left."

"You know the only reason I left you was because I love you, but I think incestuous pedophilia is weird, right?"

"Really?"

"Nah." A disappointed silence followed America's last comment. "But all the same," he continued. America leaned forward from his kitchen chair and kissed England's forehead. "Now get some sleep, dumbass." He began to lean back to a normal sitting position, but he felt a hand on his shoulder stop him.

"Wait…" England felt tears come to his eyes. He didn't know why, but they did. America stood up and, without letting go of England's hand, kicked off his boots and pulled off his bomber jacket and crawled into the bed next to him. England buried his head under America's chin, where he promptly fell asleep.


	2. Part Two

England awoke to a pounding headache. He groaned, and started to roll onto his back, his eyes still closed. He stopped halfway, as moving only made his head pound more. He opened his eyes a little bit, but shut them again. The light streaming in a window hurt his eyes, and his head pounded. He groaned again.

England felt a movement beside him. "Finally awake, are we?" said a voice.

"…Enh?" England replied. His sluggish thoughts managed to register that the voice seemed familiar, but in his hung-over state, he was having trouble associating a name or a face with it. He turned his head, ignoring his headache.

"Mornin'," said an unidentifiable someone lying in the bed next to him. "Still hung over, I see." England opened his eyes all the way this time. The face slid into focus, and England almost imploded. _What…the hell…? _he thought.

"What…? No…this isn't real. I'm delusional. I'm dead." England stood up. His head pounded. He pinched his arm. _It's not a dream, at least… _he thought

"Oh nonononono. You're not going anywhere yet. And I'm pretty sure you're not dead." America grabbed England around the waist and pulled him back onto the bed.

"But why am I in bed with you?" England asked.

"I think you know why." America raised one eyebrow.

England's eyes widened. "You mean…? You can't be serious. I think I'd remember that…wouldn't I?"

"I don't know, would you?" Again with the eyebrow. "Nah. Just kiddin' ya, bro."

England was rather relieved, and glad to know that he hadn't had sex with someone without even bothering to remember anything about it. "But the question still remains…Why am I in bed with you?"

"I picked you up off the street last night passed out and totally drunk. So I brought you to my house. God, England, you gotta lean to take better care of yourself. Even I can do better than that."

"Ugh. Whatever. But that still doesn't explain why I'm in your bed."

"When I told you to go to sleep, you practically dragged me into the bed with you."

"…I did?"

"Yep."

"You're not making this up, are you?" England eyed him suspiciously.

"Nope."

England rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

"Does it really matter how you got here? You're here now and there's nothing you can do about it." America grinned maliciously. "I also happen to be a great deal stronger than you, since I'm the hero and all." He sat up.

"Wha…?" England was slightly confused.

"Which means," America began, "that I can do this," he leaned over England and placed a kiss directly on his mouth, "and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

England blushed. "Th-that's okay with me…" he stammered.


End file.
